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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26803765">catalyst light of mine (show me a sign)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekatos_Mist/pseuds/Hekatos_Mist'>Hekatos_Mist</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - The Old Guard (Movie 2020) Fusion, Gen, Grief/Mourning, I had to try to treat that with the gravity it deserved, I have so many THOUGHTS for this story, Immortality, M/M, Multi, Murder, Natural Disasters, Stregobor Being an Asshole (The Witcher), Survivor Guilt, This isn't much of a crossover so much as an AU, but a building collapses and many people die, eventually, if you hadn't guessed who the unethical scientist was gonna be, it will get better!, this is frankly dark at the start, when I tag for graphic depictions of violence I fucking mean it</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-20 09:41:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,630</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26803765</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekatos_Mist/pseuds/Hekatos_Mist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaskier should have died in the collapse of the Empyrius Shopping Centre. Instead he finds himself shellshocked and numb from the disaster, but very much alive. It's practically miraculous. He chalks up the pain he thought he felt to stress and tries to get on with his life.</p>
<p>That is, until a white-haired man and a woman with violet eyes show up at his door, claiming to be immortals. </p>
<p>(I'll update the summary as I go, I promise)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion &amp; Original Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>catalyst light of mine (show me a sign)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>title from To Meet You There by Anjimile</p>
<p>this was for the Witcher Writers' Circle discord's October bingo, though I've only got one trope so far. I meant to have more, but yeah.</p>
<p>If you think I got anything wrong or accidentally did something disrespectful, please LMK and I'll do my best to fix it!</p>
<p>I based the Empyrius Shopping Centre collapse off of the Sampoong collapse in 1995, and tried to research it well, so it could be disturbing. I also tried to make the disaster relief as accurate as possible, but I don't know if I achieved that.</p>
<p>IDK how to tag for these but warning for desciptions of dead bodies and murder of the POV character by other main characters. If you've watched the Old Guard you'll probably be okay but yeah. Be gentle with yourselves and don't read this if you think it'd be bad for you</p>
<p>and please, pay attention to the tags.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He should have died.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>They had all seen small cracks spread through the walls in the food court that morning, and the shopping centre management had told them not to worry. It was the plaster breaking, nothing more, and would be fixed after hours. Then there had been weird banging noises around noon, and he’d heard a rumour from the girls at the makeup counter that the upper floors of the building were going to be shut down. Nothing happened though, and he’d continued about his day extolling the virtues of this guitar or that electric keyboard to shoppers. Then around four in the afternoon, as the shopping centre was packed with people on their way home from work or school, everyone heard loud sounds from upstairs. An intern from the hair dresser’s opposite the food court came down to let them know there were massive cracks now, all around the support columns. The boy, gangly with acne badly concealed, had barely finished his anxious spiel when there was an enormous crash overhead and the building’s alarm went off. A toddler started screaming somewhere in the store.</p><p> </p><p>Then the floor shuddered and the ceiling plaster began to fall. Dust made it difficult to see. People were yelling and crying out. There was a discordant crash as someone fell into an instrument display.  The lights flickered and went out. He tried to call for order, for people to remain calm, but he choked on the air filled with debris. Glass shattered as the windows at the far end of the music store distorted and crumpled in on themselves, sending brutally sharp confetti into the air and dagger-like shards tumbling to the floor. He realized the ceiling was going to cave seconds before it did.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He had felt the beam hit hard against his back, pinning him to the ground even as it gave way and as more and more rubble fell on top. Felt his ribs crack and his lungs struggle to inflate before white hot pain overtook his torso. Felt the burning need for oxygen and the dawning realisation of <em> this is how I go </em>. </p><p> </p><p>He'd heard the screams of the others amid the deafening sound of concrete, metal and stone breaking and crumbling, even as dark spots danced in front of his eyes and his consciousness faded.</p><p> </p><p>That didn't change the fact that, 10 minutes after the disaster relief crew pulled him from the wreckage, his heart stuttered into motion. His lungs began to re-inflate. His spine, grit and stones pressing into the exposed flesh where his shirt had been torn through, twisted back into shape. </p><p> </p><p>Jaskier moaned quietly as he regained consciousness and the use of his voice. His eyes fluttered open.</p><p> </p><p>He lay on his back, staring up at the late afternoon sky, half shaded by a sapling’s thin, leafy branches. The air was still and heavy, and filled with a cacophony of sound. The wail of sirens, piercing but somewhat muted by distance. The grumble of machine engines and the buzz of frantic conversation. Groans, and the sound of many people crying. Someone with a megaphone ordering people to get back. The crackle of walkie talkies.</p><p> </p><p>He began to hear voices calling out behind him, but he couldn’t make out their words.</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier couldn't understand. He tried to think.</p><p> </p><p>There'd been a collapse. He'd been caught in it. He wasn't there anymore. He was outside. Someone moved him?</p><p> </p><p>Everything hurt. But it didn't hurt as much as it did a few minutes before. His ribs felt bruised, not broken.</p><p> </p><p>He'd probably overestimated the damage because of the shock, he thought. It was weird he was alone, though. He could hear someone calling that there was another ambulance, but the sound was distant. He’d been moved, and then left by himself? That didn’t make sense.</p><p> </p><p>He sat up, and his spine spiked with agony. Fuck. He found himself stuck braced on his elbows, his body unwilling to move either into a proper sitting position or back down to rest on his back. </p><p> </p><p>This is fine, he thought, I'll just stay like this for a bit. He looked around himself slowly, careful to move only his eyes. He recognised where he was then from the skyline that came into view—the parking bay on the south side of the building.  The sapling above him was one of the many young linden trees that provided shade to the seating areas and pavement along the shopping centre’s southern façade during the day. In the distance, high-rise buildings glittered along their right sides as the slowly lowering sunlight cut below the cloudcover.</p><p> </p><p>He lowered his gaze, and his breath got caught in his throat when he realised what he was surrounded with. </p><p> </p><p>On either side of him in rows, dragged into something like a neat order, lay the bodies of his coworkers. The lines repeated again and again across the concrete. In rows, like a cemetery. Some of the bodies—the people—he knew only by sight. Others…</p><p> </p><p>"Essi?" he breathed. A blonde girl lay a few feet away, her habitual side fringe of curls fallen back from her face. </p><p> </p><p>He pushed himself up again, and cried out as his spine flared with pain again, the burning ache seeping out into his ribs. His hands spasmed and clenched into fists against the rubble strewn ground. But now, leaning forward on bleeding knuckles rather than braced on his elbows, he could see her properly.</p><p> </p><p>She looked calm, and peaceful. If you ignored the fact that arms weren't supposed to bend that way, and that her shirt hadn't been stained a rusty dark brown that morning. Her eyes, delicately emphasized in beige eyeshadow, were half-closed, and clouded over where they had been vibrant. </p><p> </p><p><em> I’m going to be sick </em> , he thought. <em> This is some horrible nightmare. I’m going to wake up. Melitele, let me wake up. </em></p><p> </p><p>He tore his eyes away from Essi—Essi’s body—and looked around again. He was rewarded with a fit of dry-heaving as he locked gazes with the glassy dead eyes of his erstwhile manager. The man’s crew cut was gone, replaced with a chunk of concrete embedded in his skull. Jaskier’s lunch made a valiant attempt to leave his stomach.</p><p> </p><p><em> This is sick </em> , he thought. <em> Oh gods. Oh gods. </em></p><p> </p><p>Eventually he managed to stand, falling only twice—once when his legs hurt like his tendons had been replaced with razor wire, and again when he looked behind where he had been lying.</p><p> </p><p>The Empyrius Shopping Centre, biggest in all of Redania, let alone Novigrad, was half gone. The south facing wall, and the entire wing of the building it had fronted, was just… missing. A pile of rubble and debris lay in its place. Concrete and rebar. Glass and broken fluorescents. Tiles and wooden fittings. People in high-vis vests scrambled over the ruin, carrying injured citizens out on stretchers, or supporting them as they limped unsteadily without the use of one or more limbs. He could see the long arms of cranes reaching over to hoist massive chunks of wreckage away. Dust danced in the sunlit air above the scene like swarms of golden flies.</p><p> </p><p>He kept his gaze low after that. </p><p> </p><p>He staggered around to where the flow of people seemed to be heading, away from the southern parking lot. On the eastern side was the main entry way to the shopping centre, and the broad pedestrianised area that led up to it. Tents had been sent up here, and bevies of cars and ambulances were pulling up and leaving again with anxious swiftness.</p><p> </p><p>The paramedics took one look at him and pointed him to a tent on the far side of the pedestrainised area, out of the shadow of the still standing western wing of the building. Then they took a second look at him, and a slight woman in her thirties grabbed his arm. She was tight around the eyes, like everyone there, and covered in dust. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days, or maybe weeks.</p><p> </p><p>“Where did you get that triage tag?” she asked briskly. Jaskier blinked at him.</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>“That tag!” The woman pointed at Jaskier’s chest. He looked down and winced automatically, expecting his spine and neck to ache at him for the sudden movement, but there was only a slight twinge. That was… weird. It had hurt so much when he sat up, before. Disregarding that thought, Jaskier picked up the paper tag that hung around his neck by a string. It was folded several times, and had different colours on each side. The top side, which would have been clearly visible as he laid under the linden tree, was white. It said ‘dead’ in block capital letters.</p><p> </p><p>He looked back up at the woman. “I don’t know? I didn’t see it before.”</p><p> </p><p>“You didn’t take it from a body?” Her eyes were black and sharp, and they studied Jaskier’s face with what he realised was tightly bridled fury. He thought of Essi, lying there so peacefully. If he concentrated… yes, she had been wearing a tag like his when he saw her, hadn’t she? He remembered a flash of white on the far side of her, glimpsed as he looked away. He thought of someone disturbing her body, taking something from her…</p><p> </p><p>“No, I didn’t,” he said, more aggressively than he would have normally. “It was on me when I woke up, I don’t know.”</p><p> </p><p>The woman stared at him some more before nodding. “Okay, fine. I don’t have time for this. Go to the tent there—” she gestured to the same tent Jaskier had been pointed to“—and wait, don’t go to sleep. When you get to hospital, ask to be checked for concussion. And give me that.” She held out her hand for the tag. </p><p> </p><p>Jaskier pulled it from around his neck and gave it to her. The woman opened it up with sharp movements, refolded it, and handed it back to him. ‘Delayed (3)’ was printed across the card. “Keep the green side up, got it?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yep,” Jaskier replied, and she nodded before walking off quickly, returning to the paramedic station. Jaskier watched after her for amoment, and then he made his way to the tent.</p><p> </p><p>Everyone there had either a green tag around their neck, with the exception of the three people with name tags who bustled around a small folding table with medical supplies. They were bandaging wounds and generally making sure the conditions of injuries remained stable as people waited to be transported to hospital.</p><p> </p><p>The next few hours passed in a blur. Lights were set up as darkness fell, though most of the illumination was still focused on the wreckage of the shopping centre. Some thin blankets were handed out. He entertained a few kids with green tags by telling them stories and singing songs at their request, until transport arrived to take them to Great Temple Hospital. The parents and some of the other adults seemed to appreciate the distraction, too. A bedraggled group of teens watched from the far side of the tent, worrying at their clothes and triage tags, and unabashedly leaned on each other. A young mother, her three-year-old holding onto her dark braids with pudgy, dust-stained hands, smiled at Jaskier softly and thanked him before she left with an ambulance. If the situation were more positive, he might have asked for her phone number. As it was, he hoped the yellow tag she held for her child didn’t mean anything bad.</p><p> </p><p>When Jaskier was finally brought to the hospital he waited for an even longer time—some six hours, he might have guessed—before he was seen. Exhaustion crept up on him, and he ran through his repertoire of songs in quiet whispers to keep himself awake. No one in the hospital hallways seemed to want to talk.</p><p> </p><p>When Jaskier was called and taken to a small office, he marvelled briefly that aside from being exhausted, he felt fine. He explained what had happened to the nurse, a young man who looked like he hadn’t finished his training before being shunted out to deal with the disaster. He seemed perplexed at how well Jaskier was doing considering he’d been unconscious long enough to be mistaken for deceased, but had no explanation for why he’d been in so much pain hours ago and was perfectly alright now. He examined Jaskier’s back—free of so much as grazed skin from the rough ground he’d laid on—and eventually sighed. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t understand it, frankly,” he said, as Jaskier pulled his torn, dusty shirt back on. “You shouldn’t have been unconscious that long, but you seem fine now. You’re responding normally, and you’re not injured. I can’t do anything for you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” said Jaskier, sitting heavily on the examination table. “That… that makes sense, I guess.”</p><p> </p><p> “Do you have someone to collect you, or a way to get home?”</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier had to think about that. “Uhm… yeah, yeah, I do.” </p><p> </p><p>“Great. I’d advise staying with them or someone else for the next two days, if you can, and avoiding alcohol just in case. If you have any symptoms of a concussion, call your doctor.”</p><p> </p><p>“Got it. Thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re welcome.” The young man dragged a hand through his hair, then ushered Jaskier out of the office. “Next!”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>So he called Wes from a hospital phone. His own had been crushed in the collapse, which was, again, odd. He was sure it had been in his pocket, and he was fine. But regardless, it was destroyed now. He was too tired to care, really.</p><p> </p><p>“Jaskier!” Wes said loudly when they arrived outside the Great Temple Hospital and saw him. They leapt from their car and hugged him close. “I saw the news, it was so scary—oh, shit, is it okay if I hug you?” They jumped back to an arm’s length. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s fine,” he said.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you… are you okay?” asked his old band-mate. Their relief at seeing him sloughed away, and they examined his face in the glow of the streetlights that lined the hospital entrance. He examined them back.</p><p> </p><p>They hadn’t played together for a few years, but the bond created by late-night lyrics changes and deciding harmonies the second before you’re on stage is a hard bond to break. Wes looked kind of bad now, their brown hair frizzy from the static in the pre-storm air and their eyes tense and worried. Their shirt was buttoned wrong, and now messy from where they’d touched him. He guessed they’d gotten dressed specifically to come get him, which made sense. Not many people were ready to go out at 1:47am on a Wednesday. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m alright,” he reassured them. He wasn’t lying on the ground like Essi. He was fine.</p><p> </p><p>They picked a small bit of concrete out of his hair. “You sure?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.” He gave them a tight smile. </p><p> </p><p>They both got into the cream-upholstered monstrosity that was Wes’ family’s car, and Wes drove across town to Jaskier’s apartment building. The streets were quiet now after the rush of emergency vehicles throughout the afternoon, evening and early hours of the night.</p><p> </p><p>The storm finally broke at 2:30 in the morning as they left the apartment with a bag of fresh clothes and toiletries, and they were soaked by the time they got back in the car. Dirty, dusty water dripped out of Jaskier’s hair and onto his equally dirty clothes. Wes promised he could have a shower as soon as they got into their house, and told him not to worry about the seats. </p><p> </p><p>He told them the bare basics of what had happened on the way out of the city to the suburbs, but most of the car ride was silent except for heavy rain battering the windshield. He didn’t mention Essi. He didn’t mention a lot of things. </p><p> </p><p>Wes didn’t ask.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The two days passed without complication. Wes fussed, which was sweet of him. They talked together about their old band, and each shared what they had been working on. Jaskier didn’t seek out conversation, but it was easy to fall into old habits with his friend. </p><p> </p><p>Wes’ house wasn’t particularly big, but his couch was comfortable enough and he gave Jaskier plenty of cushions. Overall, it was pretty nice.</p><p> </p><p>He did notice Wes kept his voice down more than usual, stopping himself when he got loud and checking that Jaskier didn’t have a headache. He was careful to keep the TV and radio off of news stations, too. Jaskier appreciated the gesture. </p><p> </p><p>It didn’t stop him from looking up the coverage on Wes’ laptop while he dished out Koviran takeaway for them. <em>The biggest peacetime disaster in Redania for a century.</em> <em>Criminal negligence suspected. 128 deaths and 793 non-fatal injuries. The search for the dead is ongoing. </em></p><p> </p><p>Wes found him hunched over the bathroom sink, gagging. Jaskier didn't look up the news again.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>On Friday he went home. Wes insisted on helping him get groceries before he left, and helped him carry them upstairs. He’d bought significantly more fruits and vegetables than Jaskier would have, and gave him a Look<b>™ </b>when he mentioned it.</p><p> </p><p>“Skin supplements won’t help you if you get scurvy,” they said, and handed him a box of the biggest blueberries he’d ever seen. </p><p> </p><p>He’d shrugged, and dutifully put the berries away in his fridge.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Now it was Tuesday. One week after… everything. </p><p> </p><p>People he hadn’t so much as spoken to in years had been contacting him over Facebook with concerns and condolences. He’d regretted getting a new phone as soon as he’d put in his details, because it wouldn’t stop buzzing. </p><p> </p><p>A general statement on all his social media—I’m fine, don’t worry, here’s the relief fund for people worse affected by this if you want to donate—had helped. And then he disabled notifications. </p><p> </p><p>He hadn’t slept much since he left Wes’ house. What sleep he did get made his adrenaline race as he recalled falling rubble, screams, choking dust, burning pain. Mixed in with these memories—were they all memories? He couldn’t have been that badly hurt—were imagined details. Golden eyes, glaring through twisted rebar. The scent of lilac twisting through the stormy air. Pale hair, streaked with mud.</p><p> </p><p>He’d tried to focus on his songs and poems but… he just couldn’t. He spent a lot of time in bed, watching old rom-coms and period dramas. Trying not to think.</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier was at his kitchen counter, an iced smoothie turning lukewarm. Some of Wes’ fruits had begun to go off, so he was trying to use them up. He wasn’t thinking about that, though. He had opened Twitter automatically and was scrolling through the latest celebrity drama when—</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> our thoughts and prayers go out to— </em>
</p><p>
  <em> such a tragedy— </em>
</p><p> </p><p>There was a picture of a pavement covered in candles and flowers. Framed photographs. Essi’s was there.</p><p> </p><p>Someone knocked at his apartment door, startling him from his daze. He shook his head and slid off the high stool. “Yeah?”</p><p> </p><p>They knocked again. Three times, distinctive and unhurried. It was a little threatening. Jaskier unlocked the door without bothering to look through the peephole and stood back.</p><p> </p><p>In the doorway was the most attractive woman he’d ever seen. Behind him, barely visible leaning against the landing wall, was possibly the most attractive man he’d ever seen. They looked like models. They looked like people he’d have written an entire album of lovesongs for, once upon a time.</p><p> </p><p>“Hi, Julian,” said the man.</p><p> </p><p>“I—you—um—do I know you?”</p><p> </p><p>The guy tilted his head and smiled a little, squeezing his eyes in a gesture that wasn’t exactly kind, but wasn’t exactly cruel. Toying. “I don’t know, do you?”</p><p> </p><p>The woman in front of him made a sound that might have been a muffled cough and might have been a snort.</p><p> </p><p>“I—” He didn’t know either of them. He would have remembered over 6 feet of silver-haired beefcake, even if that wasn’t usually his type. He definitely would have remembered a woman with purple eyes. Even in the numb state he was in at the moment, he would surely remember.</p><p> </p><p>So why did they both seem familiar?</p><p> </p><p>“We’re not playing with the kid, Geralt, come on,” the woman said. The man rolled his eyes. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m Geralt,” he said. “This is Yenn.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yennefer of Vengerberg,” the woman corrected.</p><p> </p><p>“The… witch?” Jaskier asked. </p><p> </p><p>The man, Geralt, laughed. Yennefer of Vengerberg, if that was her real name, rested her arm against the doorway and leaned forward. She was wearing stiletto heels, he realized, that made her slightly taller than him. Probably of a height with her friend, if he had to guess.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” she said, “the witch.”</p><p> </p><p>“O-kay…” said Jaskier. “What does a witch want with me?” She pushed past him into his apartment. “Hey, don’t—”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re immortal, like us,” she said. </p><p> </p><p>“Fuck off,” he said. “I’d know if I was immortal.”</p><p> </p><p>“You survived being crushed under six floors of concrete,” said the white-haired man from behind him. Jaskier tensed and stepped away. The man closed his apartment door.</p><p> </p><p>Fuck. A home invasion?</p><p> </p><p>A home invasion by supermodels?</p><p> </p><p>“How do you know about that?” he asked. He hadn’t told anyone but that nurse about what he’d thought had happened in the collapse.</p><p> </p><p>“This gets boring so fast,” said Yennefer, and pushed her dark skirt up at the side. “Geralt, if you’d be so kind.”</p><p> </p><p>“What—” Jaskier felt strong arms grab him around his neck and waist, pinning his arms to his side. </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry,” the man muttered in his ear. “It’s easier to explain after.”</p><p> </p><p>“Get off—” </p><p><br/>
That was when Yennefer slit his throat with a knife she <em> certainly </em> hadn’t had a minute ago.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>if you enjoyed reading this, please leave a comment! It fills my heart with joy and encourages me to keep writing.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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